


I Don't Belong Here Anymore

by Crossover_Critter



Series: HoodFlash [13]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Barry Allen is The Flash, Barry Allen is a widower, Jason Todd was Red Hood, M/M, Major spoilers for RHATO 25, This is Jason walking away, but after a lot of angst, cannon divergence: mid-RHATO annual 2, graphic description of violence and death, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29376963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossover_Critter/pseuds/Crossover_Critter
Summary: Jason has no clue why he's doing this.  He doesn't have to be here.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Iris Allen (past), Barry Allen/Jason Todd
Series: HoodFlash [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828789
Comments: 32
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

Jason has no clue why he's doing this.

His palms are sweaty as he removes his helmet, storing it in the compartment under the seat of his motorcycle. He drags a twitchy hand through his damp, matted hair trying to school it into some semblance of order. His heart feels like it's about to jackrabbit out of his chest.

He doesn't have to be here -- in fact, he was told explicitly that he wasn't welcome. And while he's never been good at following orders, right now he's not sure if he's the sadist or the masochist in this little endeavor.

However, the ancient, wooden door _creaking_ open behind him, the sound somehow embodying a level of sophistication he never managed to achieve or even fake, tells him it's too late to retreat gracefully. He takes a steadying breath, then another, turns, and can't help but smile as his eyes fall on the one person he's actually missed in this godforsaken house – in the whole godforsaken city. "Alfie," he whispers. And fuck if Jason thinks he might cry.

"Master Jason." The butler strides forward with sure, measured steps and clasps Jason firmly by the biceps, taking a moment to study the younger man with a pointed gaze that reveals more than Superman's x-ray vision.

It makes Jason feel naked and exposed. There's a minute tightening of Alfred's eyes and mouth, visible only to someone who knows the older man well. He has no idea what it means, and he doesn't have time to ponder it before he's being pulled into a bruising hug that squeezes the air from his lungs in a surprised _huff_.

"It's been so long," the butler breathes. "My boy. I didn't know what to think."

Jason returns the embrace, all but enveloping the smaller man in his bulkier frame. Even after all this time, Alfred still feels like home – like so many things the manor was supposed to be but never was and never will be. "I'm sorry," he says, tightening his arms around the older man, not for what he did, but for hurting someone he cares about.

Pulling back, Alfred lets out a polite British _sigh_ and smiles sadly. "It's alright, Master Jason. The important thing is you're here. Come, you've missed dinner, but the others are in the study," he says, taking the younger man's hand and turning back to the front door. When Jason doesn't move, he stops, his expression questioning.

"I'm not here to stay, Alfie, I'm here to...,"  _Give Bruce the finger. Tell them all to fuck off. Throw a flaming helmet at Batman's feet and watch it burn._ There are so many things Jason wants to do; he has no idea if he has the resolve for any of them. The sweat clings to his neck and his brow; he has to force himself not to hide his hands in his pockets. "...say goodbye." The butler looks at him appraisingly for a moment; there's something in his gaze that sets Jason's teeth on edge.

"I know you and Master Bruce had words, but I'm sure if you explained...."

It takes a minute for the shock to wear off, but when it does, there's no restraining the green-tinged fury that adds a chest-rumbling bass to Jason's voice. "'Had words'!? Had fucking  _words?!_ I  _wish_ we'd  _'had words._ '" He lets out a crude approximation of a laugh, the anger rapidly rising to a boil, scalding hot in his belly, as he studies Alfred's face. Restrained annoyance. Exasperation. Blame. 

And Jason  _understands._ "He didn't tell you, did he?"

With an uncertain glance back towards the manor, Alfred takes a minute to consider his response, unwilling, as always, to exceed his station. "Master Bruce said he found you after your...attack on Penguin. That the two of you fought, and he mandated that you leave Gotham."

It all comes out so matter-of-fact, like a veteran reporter bored out of his mind narrating The Riddler's latest caper. A pit opens in Jason's stomach, drawing out waves of hurt that he didn't even know existed within himself. "And that was it then? I disappear for almost a year and...nothing? Not even a phone call? You ever think to ask me for my side of the story?"

"It's not like you haven't disappeared on us before, Master Jason," Alfred reminds him with a tone of reproach. "I thought – we all thought – you had gone away to...collect yourself. You did, after all, try to murder a man live on national television."

"Well, you're at least partially right," the younger man spits darkly. Spinning around, he yanks his saddlebag off his bike, the buckle catching and almost snapping in his haste, and slings it over his shoulder as he barges past the butler and towards the manor. "Guess it's story time."


	2. Chapter 2

Jason yanks the ornate door open and takes great pleasure in the _crack_ of the wood ricocheting down the hallway as it strikes the wall. Marching into the study with heavy, deliberate steps, he tracks Tim and Damian out of the corners of his eyes, both already in motion at the mere perception of a threat, Damian executing a small flip to land on the back of the recliner while Tim practically dives over the sofa to face him with the furniture providing cover. 

He allows himself a wicked grin, intent on his target but visualizing the collateral damage as he stalks to the center of the room and flings his arms out like a prodigal son making his triumphant return.

"Hey,  _dad_ , miss me?" he asks in the most obnoxious voice he can manage. "I know you said never to call or visit, but you know me, always been shit at taking orders." The grin stretches wider, sardonic, showing off all his teeth.

"What do you think you're doing, Todd?" Damian barks out, imperious as always, his sword having materialized in his hand, steady and gleaming with a lust for blood in the golden glow of the desk lamp.

"Tt," Jason replies in a parody of the boy's trademark scoff of derision, waving away his words as if they were gnats. "Don't worry, Demon Brat, I'll make this quick. I just have a message for _Father_. But it's good that you're all here to hear it, too."

Rising slowly from his own chair in the corner – stoic, inscrutable, a distance in his gaze that says he's unconcerned and barely bothering to be present because none of this even matters – Bruce turns almost lethargically to face Jason. To one and all, the message is clear: there's no threat here. Nothing at all to see. Stand down. Move on. "What do you think you're doing?"

The older man does a good imitation of that disinterested, jaded reporter, and Jason wonders if Alfred taught Bruce or the other way around. Their so-called family is so fucked up. Despite every instinct and every muscle in his body calling on him to wipe the blankness from The Bat's face and replace it with a black and blue and red masterpiece, he manages to keep himself in check. Barely. "I figured I'd surprise you, you know, in a 'hey, dad, I'm not dead despite your best efforts' kind of way." His smile turns feral, menace rising in his gaze. "I mean, you tried hard enough to kill me, right? You must be sorry you didn't succeed."

"What are you even talking about, Jason?" Tim asks, all exasperation, his eye roll contemptuous. "You're the murderer – we all saw you try to kill Penguin."

" _Was_ , Replacement!" Jason barks, still focused on Bruce, not even sparing the younger vigilante a glance. "Was! I didn't break Batman's precious rule; I didn't try to _kill_ anyone. I had my gun up against Cobblepot's fucking head; do you _really_ think he could have survived a shot like that _from me_ with a _real_ bullet?"

He almost goes on, has his mouth open to spell it all out in small words even they can understand, but something tells him to wait – tells him to watch instead.

The silence is elucidating.

Damian's gaze refuses to waver from where it's fixed on Jason. It's clear from the way his grip adjusts and readjusts with minute precision that the only thoughts going through the boy's head involve the most efficient yet painful way to eviscerate the older man.

Tim's eyes go to Bruce, waiting for the obvious denial. When it doesn't come, the teen almost appears startled. He waits another beat, but still nothing. His gaze then swings to Jason, offering a final chance for a "gotcha." Only when he's again denied the easy answer does his brain start to churn.

Alfred's face, however, scrunches up like he's just ingested a fatal sip of tea from a third-rate fast food chain after being told it came from Harrod's. It's obvious when he realizes just how badly he's let himself be duped.

"That's right," Jason says darkly, dripping scorn and disappointment, as he finally sees realization dawn on Tim's face next, "it was a blank. Something I'm sure Brucie here probably figured out, but apparently didn't see fit to tell you. Not that you could be bothered to rub two of your own brain cells together. Obviously."

There's another pause, this one bowing under the weight of great expectations as Damian and Tim both side-eye Bruce with questions in their gaze. The butler sends the man the same well-worn look of marrow-deep disappointment that gave every single one of the Robins nightmares.

Bruce, of course, says nothing. Even without the cowl and white-out lenses he gives away _nothing._

"Is it true, Father?" Damian finally asks, his tone suggesting that he still maintains Jason is full of shit and really doesn't really require confirmation. The question is a mere formality to put him back in his place.

"Tt. Is it true, Father?" Jason mimics three octaves higher in the space left vacant by Bruce's lack of an answer. "Did you lie to us?" He lets out a derisive _blat_ of air through his nose. "Yes and yes. You want to know what else is true?" The question hangs until all eyes are on him, even if they don't want to be. "Your father almost put me in the ground that night."

Three sets of eyes flitter among themselves and then over to Jason, then to Bruce, back to Jason, returning to each other for some kind of wordless affirmation. "It can't be," "He would never," "Just end this now," they say.

Jason feels the disbelief like the ghost of a gauntleted gut punch. But he rallies at the slight tick in Bruce's jaw. Opening his saddlebag, he slowly removes his helmet – the one he was wearing on the rooftop all those months ago – and holds it up for everyone to see. His lips twist in a sick approximation of a smile as he hears Tim and Alfred gasp. Damian tries his best to imitate his Father's blasé countenance, but his eye twitches ever so slightly as he takes in the damage.

"That was the first blow," Jason says, pointing at the gaping hole that is the front of the helmet, narrating like Barry taking the stand in court explaining Exhibit A. "Steel-toed, Kevlar-reinforced boot to the face." A pause for effect. "The second one hit here," he adds, pointing to his right eye. "There were strangle marks on my neck." The finger drops to draw a line around his throat garrote-like. "I took a cowl to my chin." His hand caresses the jagged edges of the helmet's broken jawline, but his brain registers the splintered ends of his shattered bones. Deep down he wants to puke, but he forces himself to continue; the best part is yet to come.

"The only reason the next punch didn't land was because Bizarro took. You. Down." He allows himself a smirk as he lets the declaration of Bruce's weakness and failure echo in the air. Twisting the knife, he tosses the helmet to the other man, who catches it by reflex, never breaking eye contact. Never faltering in his indifference.

"That wasn't enough for you, though, was it, _dad_? My friends had just fucking _died,_ and you came back for round two. You took me down with one punch, and then proceeded to drag me away by my fucking head. If not for Harper...." Jason makes a sound like he's gargling broken glass; it's meant to be a rueful laugh. "Well, the fact of the matter is, I did die. Several times. Of the twenty-odd bones you broke that night, five of them were ribs. First I choked to death on my own blood; the internal bleeding was so bad it looked like I was having a kid with enough left over to drown in. Then, when the docs got all that cleared out, one of those ribs punctured my lung and I still couldn't get any oxygen. You always did have a backup plan, didn't you, _dad?_ Roy said it was like that most of the night and the next day – me dying, coming back to life, and dying again."

Jason paints the picture as vividly as he can even as he has to stop and fight back the bile burning a streak up his throat. He knows the _beeping_ in his ears isn't real – just a phantom memory – but it still fucking _hurts_. And it's still fucking _terrifying._ With effort he manages to keep speaking, the blank, why-should-I-give-a-fuck expression on Bruce's face giving him strength. "I was in the hospital for a month before I was stable enough to be transferred. That entire month I couldn't move. It was like being trapped six feet under again, unable to get free, only this time the coffin was my own body."

He has to break off to swallow as the fear races back and the darkness threatens to choke him. _It's not real!_ he shouts at himself, using every trick he knows to stop the rising panic.

"I thought I was going to lose my eye," he blurts out, just to keep going. "You fractured the bone and the swelling was so bad I couldn't open it for weeks. I was sure I was going to at least be blind. Two months after that, I finally tried to walk, only to find out that that punch you gave me to the side of the head...well, it fucked with my inner ear. Every time I stood upright, I'd get dizzy and nauseous. Imagine being happy you're finally free to move again and then realizing it doesn't matter because you vomit and black out.

"Suffice it to say, if not for some pretty impressive tech and an amazing best friend, I'd still be in that hospital bed, if not literally dead, then figuratively -- in every way that matters. All because, once again, the infallible Batman punches first and asks questions later."

Jason's chest is heaving by the time he finishes, and his muscles are shaking from the restraint it's taking not to physically lash out (or pass out) _. S_ crew painting with words, he can do just as well with his fists and real blood. 

But when his eyes fall shut to draw a steadying breath, it's Barry's face he sees – Barry's scent that soothes him, and the memory of his boyfriend's touch that reminds him that  _that_ Jason is gone. It's the whole reason he's here putting himself through this. 

This is the _end_ of _that_ life.

The study could be the cemetery from which Jason escaped; there's barely a sign of life in reaction to his story. Bruce, himself, stands as a statue looming over a grave, only he lacks the air of sorrow and regret etched upon the faces of the angels watching over those lost. He hasn't so much as blinked.

The others...god, Jason doesn't even care anymore. "You can keep that," he says, voice cracking ever so slightly as it really sinks in how little he matters to the man who'd once centered in his every hope and dream. "I'm done. Fuck you, fuck your rules, and fuck all your little birds and bats. I'm gone. I'll see you never." He doesn't give any of them a chance to reply – can barely keep it together long enough to turn on his heel and make a beeline for the front door. If he looks back, he's afraid he'll see pieces of himself littered across the carpet.

His departure is like a hammer impacting the fragile stillness; he's trailed by the sudden cacophony of Damian and Tim speaking over each other, Damian demanding and Tim pleading for Bruce to explain.

Jason's through the door and back at his bike before he realizes he's been physically followed. He doesn't want to talk anymore, he just wants to get the hell out. He's kept his promise, he gets to go home now – his _real_ home. But as always, for some reason he's having trouble fathoming, he can't deny Alfred anything.

"Master Jason," the butler begins uncertainly.

"What?" the younger man asks, his voice now raw and weak as he struggles to regain his balance. He keeps his back towards Alfred as his fingers go to his mouth, searching for reassurance that the copper tang is a figment of his imagination and there's nothing preventing him from drawing breath. He sucks in a lungful of air just to be sure.

"Why did you do it?"

It all comes back out in a rush through barely parted lips. Jason's hands fist at his sides as he wrestles with his hatred for a father that screamed at him and beat him and abandoned him before giving his mother the means to end her life and leave him, too. He can't explain why, except to say that blood is always blood.

"Penguin was the reason my father – my real father – was in prison. He was part of Cobblepot's crew; the bird threw him under the bus when a job went sideways. Willis Todd might have been a shit father and a horrible person, but he didn't deserve to go down for something Penguin did. He didn't deserve to fucking die for it. So I decided to scare the crap out of the bird – and then lock him in a fucking cage for the rest of his miserable life."

"So Cobblepot _is_ alive?" Relief colors the butler's words.

Jason nods sharply, forcing himself to ignore the fact that that's the only detail that seems to matter. Ever. "He's trapped behind his own aquarium at the Iceberg Lounge. Don't worry, aside from his eye, he's fine. Some friends are looking after him."

This time the silence is like a sodden blanket, and Jason's almost got his leg over his bike to escape it when Alfred speaks again.

"Where will you go?"

The younger man _snorts_ in disbelief and shakes his head. "I won't tell you that."

For a moment Alfred looks like he's been slapped, but he gathers himself as quickly as always and adjusts. "Do you at least have someone waiting for you when you get there?"

Jason wants to lie, but the concern in the older man's voice is likely real. Unlike the others, he knows Alfred cares about him, even if it doesn't always seem that way. So instead he says, "I do. He's a...good man. I care about him. A lot."

A small smile blooms across Alfred's lips, and for a moment he looks truly happy. "I hope some day you will do me the honor of introducing us."

The younger man has no idea how to respond, but for some reason finds himself saying, "I hope so, too, Alfie. I hope so, too." Maybe he even means it.

With one last embrace, Jason brings his bike to life and takes off down the driveway of Wayne Manor, not once looking back, knowing for certain that he doesn't belong there and hoping he'll never, ever return.


	3. Chapter 3

He has one more stop to make before it's really over.

Parking his bike in front of the clock tower, Jason does something he hasn't done before: rings the bell. He has no grapple, no climbing gear, no reinforced armor to protect him if he was to fall. Even his guns are gone, melted into slag and sunk in the harbor.

When the indicator light turns green and the electronic lock disconnects, the door automatically opens. Once he clears the entrance, it closes behind him with a _groan_ and the _hiss_ of the lock reengaging. Down the corridor an elevator slides open, and he strides forward, accepting the unspoken invitation. A few seconds later the doors part again, and he steps out into the control hub, eyes squinting against the white light of dozens of computer screens arranged in a semicircle around a bank of consoles. At the center is a lone figure, unmistakable for her long, fiery hair. As per usual, she's typing away, hands gliding effortlessly across the various keyboards and controls like a skater over ice.

"Hey, Barbara," Jason says wryly, stopping several steps away.

The  _clicking_ of keys momentarily ceases as Barbara maneuvers her wheelchair around to face him. "I wondered when you'd be here," she says, eyes raking over him, taking him in, not missing a single detail. "You look like hell. I'm assuming you talked to Bruce?"

"And Tim, and Damian, and Alfred," Jason replies with a beleaguered  _sigh,_ feeling himself deflate. "Guess what?"

"He didn't tell them." Her eyes narrow and her lips press together in a thin, angry line.

"He didn't tell him. Surprise." Wide eyes and jazz hands do little to alleviate the obvious resentment in Jason's tone.

"I'm sorry."

With a tight shake of his head, Jason replies, "Don't be. You have everything?"

Reaching behind herself, Barbara picks up a fat manila envelop and holds it out. As Jason takes it she says, "It's all there, even some better versions of the docs you already have. Jason Todd never officially came back from the dead, so it wasn't hard to erase the rumors and other conjecture...as well as everything else."

"Even the...news?"

"Whatever was on public servers and accessible devices; doesn't mean there isn't an off-line copy somewhere or that you can't be recognized. You should still try and keep a low profile. Maybe dye your hair red or something." At Jason's _snort_ , she adds, "At the very least, Jason Peter Todd officially never was. As for Jason Peters, I hope he finds a way to lead a long, happy life somewhere far far away from his place."

For a moment Jason just stares at the envelope, feeling its weight in his hands. The weight of a new life, new responsibilities, a new relationship, and a new job, and yet another chance to somehow figure out a way to not fuck it all up again. "Thanks," he says reverently, his voice suddenly rough with emotion, "I appreciate this. You have no idea how much." Because he really does; he's treated her like shit over the years, and yet at the end of this, his last day in Gotham – hopefully forever – it's Barbara Gordon who's handing him the final pieces to making his new life a reality.

"I think I do." Her smile glows like one of her monitors in the dark.

Jason can't think of anything else to say, so he goes with, "Well, I guess this is it. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You, too, Mr. Peters." Barbara waves as Jason steps back into the elevator. "By the way," she says as the doors start to close, "I like the name of your shop. I hope you will be in good company; Central is definitely a happier place than Gotham can ever hope to be. And don't worry," she calls, waving away Jason's concerns even as he holds the door open to voice them, "I won't tell anyone where you are. Just...be happy, Jason. You deserve it."

"I will be – I promise," he vows as the doors close. "I will be," he repeats firmly, feeling the words echo in the small car and within himself.

Back on the street, Jason almost drops to his knees on the pavement as a wave of relief crashes over him, carrying away the last of his energy and adrenaline. He catches himself on his bike, digging his fingers into the worn fabric of his seat, breathing in the familiar scents with shaky gasps, waiting for everything to suddenly disappear.

It doesn't.

His hands tremble as he pulls out his phone to send a text. Without waiting for a reply, needing to be gone and away, he straddles his bike, guns the engine, and takes off for the highway.

_It's over. I'm coming home. See you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that at the time Forever Evil, Grayson, etc. take place, Barbara is no longer in a wheelchair, but I needed Oracle just a little longer. Please forgive the mangling of canon.


End file.
